


A Collection of the Unfinished

by DJVennalyn



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Hetalia, Homestuck - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Other, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:42:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6996247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJVennalyn/pseuds/DJVennalyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story for me to dump numerous stories in various stages of completion; some, I may return to one day. Others, I may abandon forever, the only testament to their continued existence here I'll add ships and characters as they come, and post these at my leisure and when the need to strikes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DaveKat Soulmate AU Prompt

Prompt: DaveKat color au: the world is grey until you meet your soulmate.

Karkat was at a school dance when it happened. How the hell he had managed to go through three years of school already with this asshole and they had never met before amazed him, but yet apparently they hadn’t. Of course his soulmate could have moved to the school recently, but even that was unlikely. Karkat was drinking punch while being an awkward wallflower with his best friend Terezi when it happened. One moment, the awkward teens throughout the room all thinking they were being so smooth and romantic were a boring mass of greyscale, and the next he saw something that he had never seen before. A flash of colour. It was rich and beautiful, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was warm and bright and angry and happy and above all it was living in a way he had never seen before. It was the most incredible thing he had ever experienced, and he wanted to look at it for hours. Unfortunately, the movement of bodies blocked the color from his view again. He glanced down at the punch in his hand. It was the same rich colour, only more transparent. He turned excitedly to Terezi, who was bobbing her head to the music, the light glinting off of her red tinted glasses. “Terezi, I saw colour!”


	2. Davey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Davesprite is a human and his life is not what it could have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one I will likely eventually finish, at which point it will be removed from this collection. Written after a series of dreams and daydreams I had, and written as an experiment in prose. It's linear, but large chunks are missing, due to me hopping around a little as I wrote it.

Start reading this by thinking about everything you know about the world. Now take everything you know about the world, and disregard it. Because although what you’re about to read is set in the world that you know, it wasn’t always. Next, think about the people you know. Your best friend, your neighbor, that girl you see in class but don’t talk to, the friendly barista you get your coffee from in the morning. Think about everything you know about them. Now reevaluate it. What you think you know may be wrong. Oh so wrong. You might not know it and they might not even know it, but they might not have been supposed to be here. Ask them about their dreams. See what they remember. I know the truth, and soon you will too. This is a documentation of a time in my life that was nearly inconsequential, and a time in my life that was more important than any other time in any other life. This is the story of how I died.

\---

My first day alive again was in February. It was chilly, far more chilly than any place had any right to be at that time. I was in Chicago alone in an alleyway. For me, seemed to be just an average day. I had fifteen--soon to be sixteen--years of memories that told me this was A-Okay and perfectly normal. I was dirty, hungry, and homeless. My converse were scuffed, red jeans ripped, and baggy orange sweatshirt two sizes too big for my lanky frame. The cars were zooming past on the road outside and pedestrians were walking along, going about their daily business with places to be and people to see. I had no one to see. My makeashift abode consisted of a few threadbare blankets i had stolen from the homeless shelter and my messenger bag which was stuffed with a few changes of clothes, half a box of granola bars, and a single warm bottle of apple juice. Usually I had a bit more that I had managed to scrounge up, but that day I was running low. I leant against the wall and ripped open a granola bar, thinking about my latest vivid dream. I remember this day and that dream especially well, because the events of that day lead to what I thought would be the beginning of my life improving. 

I had dreamt of flying, a common dream for me. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Flying is a common dream for lots of people. For me though, it’s different. I’m not quite me--I mean I am, but I’m not at the same time. I’m a large orange humanoid bird with a tail. Yeah, I’d say have fun analyzing that but I’ve already done it and unearthed all of the secrets it could possibly hold. This time I was fighting. And this time someone was dying. Again. His face was always obscured or lost by the time I awoke, but his strikingly blonde hair and ridiculously pointy shades were the kind of things that can’t ever fade from your mind, not after you see their owner bleed out in front of you.

Now is when my destiny started changing. Or possibly it was always my destiny, but at least it was drastically different from how my life had been going. My plans for the day consisted of visiting the local cafe/bookshop where I could have a place to disappear into warmth and get off of the streets for a few hours. I’d been pretty close with the owner for about a year after I inadvertently stopped her from being mugged. Her girlfriend, who sometimes stopped by to make a general nuisance of herself, held me in high esteem and had dropped a few favors for me on occasion. The owner--a woman by the name of Aranea Serket--always slipped me some food whenever I visited and let me stay as long as I liked during the day. A few people had attempted to complain about me loitering in the stacks, but that went nowhere thankfully.   
That day the bell tinkled cheerily as usual when I entered the bookshop and nodded at the shophand Damara working behind the counter. I use the term working very loosely, as all she did was read magazines and comics in Japanese and blatantly ignore anyone who actually tried to get her to do work. Aranea would have fired her long ago I’m sure if they weren’t old friends. For the most part Aranea and Damara were on civil terms, although Meenah and Damara tended to butt heads whenever they are around each other. I browsed through the stacks for about an hour before settling into a plush chair with my worn, water-stained sketchbook that I had salvaged about a year ago and began to shade a certain drawing--the one I had dreamt about that night. It was a recurring dream, and one that always shook me just a little when I woke up and had more than once woken up with tears still tracking their way down my face from. I tried once again to draw details onto his face, but as always I failed. Erasing the mouth once again, I stared in frustration at the pockmarked space where I had again and again failed to remember any of his facial features.   
The bell rang out again, and Aranea breezed into the store followed by a woman that I didn’t recall ever seeing. She was tall, carried herself like a princess, and dressed in clothing that she somehow managed to make look like the height of fashion, despite the wear around the edges of it all which belied that it was worn frequently and carefully attended to so that it would last longer. Her dark skin--what was revealed- was covered in winding tattoos that somehow increased her elegance. Aranea, as tends to happen with well-read people I’ve found, was monologuing about some book she had read. The woman for her part was seemingly attentive, and was nodding along. I peered up at her over the edge of my sketchbook at her. As Aranea rushed of to the back of the store with a quick hello to me, the woman’s eyes roamed the store before falling on me. My eyes flicked subconsciously onto my sketchbook page away from her for a moment before I remembered that I wore shades for a reason and my gaze returned to her. Her stare was glued to me, but her face was blank. When Aranea returned holding several textbooks on what I could spy was psychology, the woman stopped her and asked her a question in a low voice that I couldn’t quite catch. They both glanced at me, and Aranea shook her head. Damara let out a bark of a laugh, and said something likely derisive in Japanese. I was resisting the urge to sink into my chair. 

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  
When I awoke tangled in the sheets and Dirk’s arms, I was content. It was eerily and unusually quiet in the house, and exceptionally cold in Dirk’s room. I wriggled out of the bed, casting one last fond glance at Dirk before slipping on my customary orange sweatshirt, worn as it was, and a pair of sweatpants over my boxers before quietly slipping out of the room. I padded down the hall, my sock-covered feet making gentle tsk-tsk sounds against the floor as I made the short walk to the kitchen, rubbing my eyes sleepily. I moved robotically among the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of apple juice and savoring the quiet as I woke up. I would’ve glanced out the window sooner or later anyway, but it just so happened that I did it before Dirk woke up today, and I saw the white snow thickly blanketing the ground like so much sugar. It was still falling, drifting lazily to the ground, unperturbed by the morning sun. I stared at it for a moment in wonder and excitement before abruptly setting down my glass and hurrying to the front door. I shoved my feet into my shoes and opened the door as quietly as I could, closing it gently behind me.  
I was beyond ecstatic. I ran through the snow and made snow angels, despite my thin clothing, and even had a brief snowball fight with a tree. It was during this snowball fight, when I tried to make the biggest snowball I could, that I got an idea. I spent the next hour rolling giant balls of snow and somehow managing to pile them up on top of each other to create two awkwardly shaped snowmen, one notably smaller than the other as I had grown tired while making them. As I stood, surveying my creations, it occurred to me that they reminded me of myself and Dirk. Quick as a flash, I snuck back into the house and crept down the hall into Dirk’s room. The house, especially Dirk’s room, was nearly too dark to see in after the blinding light of the white snow outside. I nearly tripped over the clutter of something on his floor, but caught and righted myself before I made too much noise and woke him up. Reaching his nightstand, I grabbed both of our shades and hurried back outside where I placed them each on one of the respective snowmen.  
In my excitement I knew I had to wake Dirk up immediately. He didn’t usually take well to being woken up too early, but there was no way I could wait to show him this. I wasn’t quiet at all this time as i raced back into his room and jumped on his bed, shaking him awake. “Dirk, Dirk get up. Dirk!”  
He swatted at me and groaned. “Davey, whaddya want I’m trying to sleep it’s too early go away.” he mumbled nearly incoherently into his pillow.  
Despite his protests, i was undeterred.


	3. Cold Revelation and Backwards Maneuvering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another story written about a dream I had. The man is Signless, and one day--hopefully soon--I will finish this, but for the moment I will memorialize it here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An experiment in prose, written less than a minute after I woke up from a dream in a similar vein.

The house which he had come upon was small. Simple and plain, it was decorated with no colours and no sigils and was the plain grey of a house which might have been but was never able to. It was resting on what seemed to be an island, backed up to a cliff. Its white picket fence showed signs of disrepair, but the garden closed within and the tall apple tree seemed to be flourishing. The man entered through the gate and approached the door. Locked though it was, he passed through with ease. The front room was seemingly devoid of life, filled only with a couch and a small kitchen, all worn with years of use. Aside from the entry door, which had closed on its own once the man passed through it, there was only one other door leading deeper into the house. The man sat on the worn, beige couch, and waited.

Given time, there was a stirring of consciousness. The mist which had been barely noticeable in the room initially congealed into something thicker, clogging the room and limiting sight. A feeling arose around the man that he was not, in fact, alone, and that he was, in fact, being watched. A screaming started down the hall. A high, keening wail accompanied by banging sounds periodically. The man stared straight ahead, his expression unchanging. “Are you ready to leave here friend?” There was a kindness in his mellow voice, a sadness in his dark eyes, and a tiredness in his lined face. 

The screaming grew, if possible, even louder still. “I cannot. Despite the many times I have tried, I cannot leave the fence and cannot go farther than three floors down. There is no end, I always come back here in time. Now, I cannot leave the house at all. Stranger I beseech you, if there is a way to free me from this hell then do. I have spent my years atoning for what I have done and I am ready to allow the void to embrace me.” 

The man stood, and held his hand out in front of him. “Then come, friend, let us free you from this place.” Still yet no one appeared, but the mist that had been hanging around the room seemed to condense on his hand. And then the man moved. He took one steady step and then another towards the door leading further into the house, which was practically shaking from the force of the banging down the hall. At his touch, the door swung inward. A long hallway lay behind it, the end disappearing into darkness. There were a few doors sporadically lining the hall, but none of them were open presently. The mist seemed hesitant to enter, but the man strode through with the confidence afforded to only fools or those who have many times experienced before. 

The doors remained closed as they passed them. Some shook, some screamed, but none opened. They walked for what seemed an eternity, and may as well have been. They walked until the man’s feet must have been numb, and until the door they first entered in was in turn, shrouded in darkness. They walked until the darkness at the end of the hall was behind them, and the end was illuminated by light from an unknown light source. The doors lining the hall had long since disappeared, and only one remained. Simple and unmarked, the grey door stood unassumingly at the very end of the hall. The main raised his hand, set it on the door handle, and waited. A moment later, after great hesitation on its part, the mist descended upon his hand, and together they opened the door.

As the door opened, a change occurred.


	4. Lime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fanfiction for which I have a grand plan, and fully intend to attempt to finish. Meant to be set during the time at the beginning of Signless' Revolution, set around the trolls who carried the more underground aspects of it without even realizing that they were. I wanted to write a fanfiction that was about limebloods and why they were hunted to extinction, and here we are.

The streets were cold and wet at this time of night, just barely past nightfall. They were mostly devoid of life, the residents just barely beginning to show their haggard faces out-of-doors. Not just now waking, no, never. This particular part of town had been awake for some time yet or, more often than not, hadn’t even bothered to attempt sleeping the night before. Yet no one was stupid enough to be out during the light hours. No, indeed that was asking for far more trouble than it was worth. At this obscene hour of the evening with the shadows not yet done lengthening, on a particular street whose true name had been lost to the ravages of time, a small and world-weary troll stepped out of a doorway and began to make his way down the street, collar pulled tight up to his chin, shoulders hunched against the biting wind, and head hunched to avoid the light rain that had begun to fall.  
The troll in question was barely seven sweeps, and had the countenance and experience of one far older than that. His face was lined as it had no right to be, and his eyes spoke of tragedies incomprehensible. All in all, he was fairly average for the area he lived in. The slums tend to wear on people, pushing down and depressing lowbloods and the few unfortunate midbloods who lived within and turning them into faded facsimiles of trolls, beaten down by the world and ready to die and move on to whatever waits beyond life. His horns, curved with a hook in the middle, were roped with scars, and his ears held several piercings with various stones and symbols on them. If you were to catch him unawares you might see the tattoos falling down his back, marching along his spine like so many threshcutioners heading off to war.   
His steps, although to an unobservant passerby may seem to be the listless shuffle that can be seen on any troll within several twisting city blocks, have the sure-footedness of someone who, decidedly, should not be messed with. Two brownblooded trolls, who looked similar enough to be hatchmates despite how improbable that is, were locking lips against a building, looking like if a moment longer passed they would be pailing right there in the rain. A limeblood was standing on the corner on top of an overturned grubjuice crate, declaiming loudly against the hemocaste and the government for all to hear. ‘All’ being the five somewhat drunken pissbloods loafing about his feet, not at all enthused by his words. “Bein’ lime should not be a crime. Our place on the hemospectrum falls near the middle, but we are treated as lower than rust bloods. Is this fair? No, no it ain’t! We shouldn’ have to hide who we are in fear, we deserve equal citizenship!” he continues to shout futilely, preaching for a crowd of the deaf who care not what slander he has to say.   
The troll with the hooked horns gives them a wide berth, unwilling to come too close lest he be associated with the seditious limeblood in any way when the subjugglators come for him. He’d had far too much experience with indigobloods in general, far more than he would ever wish to have. Despite the truth in what the preaching troll had to say, it was dangerously heretical. True enough, limebloods are both hunted as animals and tactically in demand. Their powers, the ability to negate chucklevoodoos and calm purplebloods like no-one else--notorious as they were for their nigh uncontrollable rage--made limebloods both incredibly dangerous to the upper castes and incredibly beneficial to the low and mid bloods. It’s a contradictory life, he couldn’t help but grimly reflect upon. Here we are revered as near gods for our powers. Here we are covering our blood for fear of being culled like barkbeasts for our powers.  
He used to be among those who protect. He used to think that he was untouchable even as his co workers and few friends disappeared around him. That was then, when he was still barely a wriggler, involved in something far greater than him. Now he gets by doing what he can, little odd jobs on the side. One such job may await him soon, as he heads to a somewhat seedy bar nearby. The location was prearranged, and Teishi had used it several times in the past for similar dealings. This particular meeting Teishi knew not what the job he was going to be proposed was, but that was of little consequence. He often had no idea what the details of the job were until the initial negotiations, threats, and grand-standing were over.


	5. Fire and Ice (Continuum)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I should just put this at the end of Fire and Ice and call it good, but that entire fanfiction needs major reworking. It started as a zombie apocalypse novel, and turned into demonstuck at some point because what the fuck is consistency amirite? These were two chapters that I had been working on and toying around with to put into Fire and Ice, but never did.

{I'm not sure if I'm going to keep this chapter here or not or even keep it at all, I'm still fussing with it}

{basically everything past this point is chapter chunks that I'll possibly use at some point and need to be reorganized and categorized}

The first thing Meulin felt when she awoke was the temperature. Her skin that was laying flush with the hard ground was like ice, but the rest of her felt like it was being burned to ash. 

The second thing was the throbbing in her arm. That was where the hottest part of her body, and not only did the skin sting horribly and uncomfortably when Meulin raised a hand to touch it, but also it was physically hot to the touch burning her fingertips. She jerked them away and stuck her fingers in her mouth to soothe the pain. 

Meulin sat slowly up, her head pounding and side aching. Propping herself up gingerly with her good arm, Meulin surveyed the area. She became aware of a gentle swaying motion, alerting her to the fact that she was in the back of a truck. There were two other girls also sharing the somewhat cramped space with her. One was tucked tightly into the corner as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible, her light brown hair full and lifeless but occasionally visibly stirred by her breath. The other was lying immobile on her side, and it was impossible to tell if she was still alive or not. 

Meulin struggled into a sitting position against the wall, already trying to force her sluggish brain to think of an escape route. No sooner had she entertained the thought of escape then the truck stopped suddenly, throwing her onto her side. Meulin let out a cry of pain as she was thrown roughly onto her bad arm. She scrambled to her feet with the intent of being ready to fight but her plans were quickly foiled by a wave of dizziness that overtook her. She fell to the ground with a thump. 

The doors to the back of the truck flew open with a bang. Meulin flinched against her will. The bright sunlight startled her for a moment before her eyes adjusted and she squinted at the dark figure silhouetted in the doorway. The girl on the floor struggled to stand in response to some unheard command. The girl in the corner was already on her feet, face pointed down towards the ground. Meulin scrambled to her feet and followed the lead of the other girls until she could see. 

The bright sunlight seared her eyes as she stepped off of the truck. Meulin could see that there were two men, one who silently held a gun off to the side as if to intimidate them and one who was rapidly shouting orders. As much as her instinct was to watch the man with the gun, Meulin turned her eyes towards the shouting man to see what he was saying. 

'Go over there. No talking.' Meulin kept an eye on him in case he said something important, but the only things he said were reiteration a of the same thing. Suddenly, she felt a sharp jab to her side. Her head flew around, her eyes wide. The man with the gun had slammed it into her side, hard enough to hurt but not enough to knock her over or even wind her. He was talking rapidly now, too quickly for Meulin to follow. "I-I can't hear you." Meulin fought to keep her voice steady, and was ashamed at her stutter at the beginning, "I'm deaf I can't hear you and you're talking too fast."

———

Dave ran his fingers through his hair nervously. He strongly resisted the urge to reach into his pocket and light up. Rose claimed the smoke made it hard to concentrate. Normally he wouldn't give a fuck and he would just do it, consequences be damned, but now more than ever Rose needed full concentration. He needed her full concentration. So he didn't, and instead focused on the steady beat in his head. Rose had called it his "death timer", counting down to the day they would both die. Dave just called it bullshit. Luckily it was still beating on strongly, with no indication of ever stopping. 

Dave studied his twin sister sitting criss-crossed on the ground, hunched over a bowl of cheap olive oil with her brow furrowed in concentration. Her pale hair is held back by a headband and then needlessly tucked behind her ears, but a few short strands have still managed to fall loose. They hang not quite touching the bowl, but if she looked any closer they would. She made a small noise of disgust or confusion and looked up. Dave pushed off of the wall, trying not to seem too anxious. "Well?" He asked. His face and voice betrayed no hint of his emotions, but he knew his sister read him like an open book. Not a closed one, although knowing rose she would find a way to read it anyway using her creepy seer powers or some shit. Creepy seer powers that are coming very in handy right now. 

She paused for a moment, considering her words and what she had seen before she speaks. "The gate has been opened, our hypothesis on that was correct. Demons, vampires, and other unsavory creatures that one would normally find during the night time are roaming the earth once again. I believe this fulfills the first part of the prophesy, and I also believe that it is now our turn to fulfill the second."

Dave growls lightly and crosses his arms. "That's bullshit Rose, we don't even know if we're the twins it's talking about! And anyway why the fuck should we have to go through with that, we could die Rose! Death!" He threw his arms dramatically in the air. "I'm too young and beautiful to die! I can picture the headlines now: 17-year-old virgin is dead. He died trying to summon a fucking demon and got his head gnawed off. His body was so completely mangled, they had to identify him by his magnificent dick. So tragic." He flailed wildly, and rose simply quirked an eyebrow at his antics. 

“Dave, are you willing to risk the entire planet on the off chance that there are some other twins out there who share in our bloodline and have the specific powers we do?” she asked quietly. Dave spluttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think so. We’ll do it tonight, if we’re going to end this we need to act quickly. You need to go pack everything we’ll need because this drive might take a while with all that’s going on.” 

Dave scowled, refusing to budge at first. Rose cocked a single eyebrow at him as if to say “Sister knows best. Now do as I say.” Dave’s scowl increased, but he turned and did as told. Rose returned her gaze to the bowl of olive oil, brow furrowed in concentration. She stuck a tongue through her teeth and clucked in disapproval at an image only she could see. She drew a long hawthorn stick from the towel next to her and prodded at the surface of the bowl. It rippled for a moment, then stilled. A crashing noise followed by a loud string of expletives from the other room drew her attention. “Dave what on earth--” she jumped to her feet and rushed out of the room, almost knocking over her plastic bowl in the process. 

She found the culprit of the noise in his room. Dave was lying, glasses askew on the floor adjacent to the open closet door. A stool lay discarded in front of him, and a pile of boxes had tumbled onto the floor around him scattering their contents everywhere. “David Elizabeth Strider.” Rose said with disapproval and mild amusement. “What have we discussed about attempting to reach things far above your head without supervision of someone superior in height to you?” she asked with a grin.


	6. The Art of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first and probably only Hetalia fic that is going in this collection. I really don't write for Hetalia anymore and have fallen majorly out of love with the fandom. This is human Hetalia.

Prompt: We go to the same performing arts school and I’m in music and you’re in Art and we have to do a mixed media project together and shit you’re hot.

Arthur frowned at the name written on the paper next to his. Francis Bonnefoy. Arthur had heard of him of course, it was impossible not to have at this school. His paintings were amazing and his photography had been called revolutionary by some of the greatest photographers in the world. He was the school’s pride and joy, the golden child. Arthur had been hoping for someone who was good at what they did for the joint media project, but getting Francis was more than he could have hoped for. More than he had wanted also, since the few times the two of them had bumped into each other at various social events they had butted heads something terrible. ‘Why must I get him? Does whatever celestial deity there is out there hate me this week? How on earth can they expect us to work together on this bloody project?’ He cursed the professors, even though he knew the selection had been completely randomized. 

Arthur shifted his guitar up more securely onto his shoulder as he exited the room, his head pointed down. He bit his lip gently, careful to avoid his lip piercings, as he mused upon this unlucky turn of events. They would have to meet up at some point to discuss the project, and probably spend copious amounts of time together after class working on it. He ran his fingers through his messy hair, pushing his way through the lunchtime crowd on his way back to his dorm. The walk seemed to go quicker than usual when he wasn’t thinking about it, and he was at his room door before he knew it. He leaned his guitar case against the wall near his unmade bed and kicked off his shoes. Flopping down, he reclined in his desk chair with his arms behind his head and thought about what the project could be about. He clicked his tongue. “Possibly some sort of music translated into a painting or something? How the bloody hell am I supposed to have any part in this, music and visual art can hardly easily combine!” he grouched out loud to the empty dorm.

Right as he was about to go on a long rant to no one in particular about this assignment, there was a knock at the door. “Coming!” he shouted, almost falling backwards out of the chair in his scramble to get up. ‘Kiku’s out with Ludwig and Feliciano today and said he might not get home until late, who could possibly be at the door?’ Arthur unlocked the door and flung it open, surprised to see the face of the very man who had been giving him stress lately standing on the other side of the door. There was a moment of awkward silence when they both stood there staring at each other. Arthur was the first to break it. “Well, can I help you or are you just going to stand there staring at me like a bloody tosser?” Arthur could feel the beginning of a headache already coming on.

A disgusted look crossed the Frenchman’s face at the vulgar use of language but he quickly let it slide. “Bonjour Arthur, I assume you saw the partner assignments.” Arthur nodded, not wanting to speak to Francis any more than he had to. “Well I asked around and found out your dorm, I thought it would be best if we exchanged numbers and set a date to work on this project.” he said smoothly, leaning slightly against the doorframe with his arms crossed. 

Arthur scowled. “Fine. Let me grab my phone and you can put your contact in. What time is your last class tomorrow?” he asked, turning into his room to rummage about for his phone in his bag. Francis stepped through the door and closed it behind him, and Arthur was suddenly very self-conscious about the state of his side of the room. His roommate, Kiku, was a neat freak in every sense of the word. His half was immaculate and looked like a study in minimalism mixed with traditional Japanese decor. Arthur’s half, on the other hand, looked like an explosion of messy clothing in dark shades and sheet music in various states of being composed. His wall had a collage of different band posters, reminders for himself, and chord progressions that he found interesting for future use. 

Francis sneered at his mess. “Do you ever clean in here Arthur? It’s an absolute pigsty!” an easily-dodged pillow tossed at his face without a glance was his only answer. “My last class is over at seven, but it might take me a while to get cleaned up after that.” he answered, gingerly stepping over a heap of clothing to walk closer to where Arthur was rummaging through his bag. “Having trouble, are we?”

“Oh shut up you git, I know it’s in here somewhere I just can’t find it.” he rummaged around a little more, tossing out some papers and an old bag of chips. 

“This would be easier if you were just a little more cleaner or organized.” Francis quipped with a smirk at Arthur, right as he located the missing cellphone and pulled it out to hold triumphantly in the air.

“There we go! Here, put your number in. Tomorrow for the project we can just meet at that coffee shop by the bookshop on fifth avenue, Cafe Chateau, you know the one?” Arthur picked the coffee shop not because of the French name, or because it was an establishment that contrary to the nice-sounding name had a very dark interior and relatively shady patrons which he knew would get on Francis’ nerves, but because it happened to be one of his favorite places to bum around when he needed to work on a paper or just read a book. Also he knew the owner and he gave him discounted coffee, you can’t go wrong saving money when you barely have any. Going to school in the US has its perks, but one of them is certainly not the amount of money it costs.

Francis’ nose wrinkled at the suggestion, but he acquiesced. “Alright, Cafe Chateau at around 7:45 then?” Arthur nodded. “I’ll be there on time, make sure you are also.” Arthur’s noise of protest was ignored as the infuriating Frenchman breezed out the door.

Arthur flopped back on his bed. “I am so brassed off with him. This is going to be hell.”

The next day at seven fifty Arthur was waiting in the Cafe at a booth near the back reading a novel when the doorbell tinkled. It had been silent for the majority of the half-hour that Arthur had been sitting there drinking his coffee, and Arthur peered over the top of his book to confirm that it was his annoying partner who had just walked through the door. Indeed, the blonde was looking around the dim cafe for Arthur. His eyes alighted on the guitar case leaning against the booth and he started walking purposefully towards it, not needing to see the inhabitant of the booth to know who it was. “So you actually managed to be here on time, it’s impressive considering the disorder of your room that you manage to remember anything.” Francis said cooly as he slid into place in the booth.

Arthur flipped him off without tearing his focus from his book. “Sod off, I’ve been here for half an hour. I’m more amazed that you deigned to join me today, I almost thought you’d decided to spare me your presence and do the entire project yourself.”

 

 

**Note about the ending: I want some cute wrap-up with them touring about and doing art shows together and him providing the music or some cute stuff like that.


	7. Red String

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay I lied, one more Hetalia. I forgot I had this one deep in my archives.

Prompt: Red-string AU

Arthur played with the red string tied around his pinky finger, not worried in the slightest about it slipping off or fraying. Everyone around him had one also, and some of them had other colors also for different types of relationships. The blue string denoted best friends, green platonic soulmates, and so on. The red denoted romantic relationships, and it was the second most common to best friends. Arthur only had the red string, he had moved around too much for him to ever expect having any other color. Honestly is surprised him daily that he even had a red string and he frequently found himself wondering if at 25 he would ever find the person waiting at the other end of his string. He gazed out the window of the lecture hall, watching as a man in his late forties walked past with his hand held in front of him, clearly following his string to try and find the end. ‘What if I become like that man, constantly looking for a soulmate who I’m not destined to find? But no, I’ll never be so desperate as to go looking for my soulmate like that.’ he thought to himself, turning his attention back to the neatly tied red string. At the moment it stretched out of the classroom door and down the hall out of sight. It laid loosely on the floor, a clear signal that his soulmate was nowhere nearby at the moment.


End file.
